


Easy

by Vodka112



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Past Underage Sex, hints of adultery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3578682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vodka112/pseuds/Vodka112
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron wanted to live a peaceful life somewhere far from journalists and newspapers. One stormy night brought the reason for his exile on his doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Masturbation. Sexual themes but no sex.

Thunder roared through the wooden boards of the cottage. He sighed. It was the third storm to ravage his lonely little plot of land. He knew it was a fault to buy a cottage near the sea. In his defense, his brother's quaint home by the beach held a magic he just couldn't replicate.

 

His hands shuddered as he carried his chipped cup to the table. He sat down the old ragged armchair, dark where it was tainted by splotches of tea. He surrounded himself with the few blankets and throw pillows he owned. The fire cracked and spit through damp wood but fire was fire. Warming charms could only do so much.

 

He caught himself in the glass of a window. There wasn't a smile on his face, nor a frown. There was a tired, shallow quality to his eyes and not even the rattling of the windows made him twitch. The shadows surrounding his eyes added to the effect. He looked as if he'd given up on the world. He shook his head to get out of his stupor. It has been a couple of years since... _that_.

 

He halted a sigh by placing his lips on his steaming cup of tea. The past years had been a clusterfuck. He was only too happy to escape to this dreary, dark, damp cold...

 

He was doing so well. His angry outbursts lessened from catastrophic accidental magic to bouts of suppressed fury and flurry of words through gritted teeth. It was better. He was better.

 

He counted slowly from one to seventy and back.

 

Where the war had pushed people to the best of their abilities, it had the opposite effect on him. It was as if every good in him was leeched away.

 

But he was good. He sent flowers to Hermione's wedding. He sent letters to all of his other friends and twice that to his mum. Gabriel adored his “fiery” personality these days and she wrote like Harry does, long expositions of trivial events between short lines of queries that kept her awake at night. He did what he could for her, gave her advice when she asked for it and information when she needed it. Then there was that one-liner Howler he sent to some bastard during said bastard's engagement ball. He earned the right to have that one. The bloke deserved it and more.

 

He took a deep breath in and out. The steam from his cup bent and parted out of his way. There was no sense in looking back into the past. 'Closed scrolls,' as the old saying went. Move on, everyone said. He took a great gulp of the sweet tea. Chamomile. He would have gone with lavender but the blasted scent still brings him to tears sometimes. Could anyone imagine Ronald Bilius Weasley, once Auror Apprentice, once WWW Shop Attendant, once best friend and first mate of the Harry Potter... he could go on and on but him, a grown wizard, brought to tears by lavender? Unbelievable but true. He had a file in St. Mungos' that could testify to that.

 

'Stressed at the faintest whiff of lavender,' it said, among other things. It would also say, 'needs a calm and active environment for recuperation.' It wasn't for the lavender thing but Healer Violetblossom was positive it would help. The aversion was the product of the trauma, she said, and of the bottled stress and fear just now bubbling to the surface after the war.

 

His cottage was built some decades ago on rich, farming soil a bit far off from muggles and magic communities. There were only four or five rooms, including the loo. The muggles he bought it from were quite glad to be rid of it. They mentioned something about a second retirement house and how their children could use the extra money. The aged couple kept a garden on the left side of the house and it soon became home to some flowers and magical herbs, easy to grow of course, and a couple or so gnomes. He learned to plant vegetables and fruits for the beasts, as well as potatoes and nuts whenever the cold weather sets in. A couple of ways off by a beaten path was a well-fenced chicken coop currently housing half its capacity of fowl. He still forgot to feed them some days but he learned to sell the extra eggs to the townsfolk.

 

The muggles here were more laid back. Everyone had either a chicken coop or a barn and they always had some cake or exchangeable good for the eggs and occasional herb he brought. Apparently, they thought he was the old couple's son. They were incredibly nosy and frighteningly tolerant. It didn't take long for them to set him up with their daughters, nieces and second cousins. When he politely refused them, their mothers just looked at him helplessly and invited their gay sons instead. What was up with these mothers and setting up their children and everything? Aside from the parade of women and men and crocheting clubs, he found life here to be quite tolerable. He missed the hustle and bustle of London sometimes but living out here was nearly like living in the Burrow, minus the noise, chaos and with the extra space.

 

There was a flash of light from outside, forcing it way through the cracks of the boarded windows. It was instantly followed by a terrific roar that shook the cottage. He nearly threw the tea on himself again! That thunder hit too close for comfort and in the direction of his herb garden too!

 

His tiny property was on a hill covered with trees and a dried up creek between him and the next-door neighbor. On second thought, that dried up creek might be a raging river by now. Hopefully the thunder didn't hit one of the gnomes. Death by pure energy was just not the way to go.

 

His fingers trembled as he took another gulp of his tea. There was a loud thumping behind the front door and he shuddered so much he ended up sloshing tea all over his face. It was followed by another and a final one before he could encourage himself to stand up and investigate. He wiped his face with his sleeve and instantly regretted the action. The sweater was scratchy as hell. There was no way any muggle or magic folk could cross his wards unless the lightning blasted right through his shields, again. His wand was in his hand as he toed slowly to the door, a spell already forming on his lips.

 

He unbolted the door and opened it in a flash. Literally. The flash was from the _Petrificus Totalus_ he cast into the night. There was a slumped, muddy and hooded creature sitting on his doorstep. The spell missed by a hair's breath when the body fell wetly on his welcome rug. He grimaced. He had half the mind to roll the creature... man... whatever it was, outside his house but he settled for kicking the mound of dark cloth instead. The creature groaned and he noticed dark liquid staining his rug.

 

“Who... What are you? Speak if you don't want to die,” he commanded.

 

“Ron... Ronald?” the wet pile groaned and tried to sit up.

 

“How do you know my name?” he asked through gritted teeth. He stepped on the man. Or being. Whatever. He needed them down where he could easily incapacitate them. The creature seemed to understand and went pliant against the floorboards. A strong gust of wind nearly killed the fire he had burning in the fireplace and showered them with rain. Great. Now his whole side was wet. The shadows grew and flickered about in the room while the fire hid under the logs.

 

The creature let out a low laugh and winced.

 

“Really, pet? How fast you forget,” he said.

 

Oh. Oh, this was no creature. Ron dug his heel deeper into the bastard's side. The man squirmed and grunted. Ron kept on pressing.

 

“Don't call me pet. You can't call me that,” Ron said, “What are you doing here?” He seriously debated whether the ministry would miss one of its pure-blood benefactors.

 

“Was traveling... got caught by rouge wizards... had to run– Merlin, take your foot off, it hurts!” the man said. His hood slipped off and his blond hair shone like one of those muggle tower lights. Ron sneered and didn't move.

 

“Why should I trust you?” he asked, his grip on his wand as tight as the press of his lips.

 

“I'm bleeding, for Hecate's sake. Have pity, Ronald. Or did they cure you of that too?” the man hissed, “Thought this was a muggles' dwelling... wouldn't have knocked if I knew it was yours!” Disdain dripped like poison from the man's tongue. Ron lifted his foot and the man sighed in relief. Then light flew from the end of his wand and the man collapsed.

 

The man was... Draco Malfoy.

 

* * *

 

Ron moved quickly and efficiently. He carried the body inside and closed the door. He hastily bound the body and cast an anti- _alohamora_ spell on the door. He assessed the damage on the body (and he had to undo the bind. Blast it!) The ferret wasn't lying. There was an ugly gash right where he stepped on and another on his back. The cut was cleaner but bled through his robes and on the rug. He cast some temporary wound cleaning and blood clotting spells on the gashes. He bound the body again. He floated the body onto the couch and covered it with a blanket. After taking the body's wand, he opened the front door and re-locked it again. The wards he put up around the cottage were all temporary. A surge of power could have easily torn his shields to pieces. It also meant he had to ward the whole place again and it would take a good month to do!

 

He moved to the outskirts of his territory and invoked ancient warding spells followed by new shielding ones. Hermione's wards were still the best but with a brother like Bill, he figured he could mix and match. Under supervision of course. Mum would kill them all otherwise.

 

He spread his arms, moving his fingers just so and in rhythm to his wand movements. He was done in an hour. His cottage should be blissfully invisible to anyone aside from him and that bastard. It really sets his blood on fire.

 

Speaking of fire, some plant somewhere to his left turned into a blazing torch. He tried to calm himself with deep, slow breaths before dousing the flaming bush. He stomped back to his home.

 

* * *

 

Draco woke up in a bed in a small, dusty room. The sheets were incredibly thin and scratchy and smelled of chamomile and lemon. There was a ragged quilt on top. He ached as he sat up and tried to piece together his thoughts and his past. Hopefully his future too since waking up in an unknown location with a low lit candle for company spoke too much of hostage taking and certain death.

 

He last remembered leaving the office and meeting an informant in a pub. He wasn't even out of the building when some light purists or maybe lower ranked death eaters caught sight of him. They chased him for a couple of blocks before he Apparated. It was Hecate's Will he arrived in one piece considering how he only knew this place from monthly reports and photographs. He didn't manage to shake off one of his attackers and they Apparated together. It was a kiss from lady Luck when he crossed a river through a crude plank of a bridge while his pursuer fell into the angry tide. His attacker flung a cutting hex at the last minute and caught his back.

 

He ran and ran even as the storm continued. A tree started falling and he couldn't avoid the branch that tore at his side. When he got out of the forest, he fell into the front steps of a little house, all boarded up against the storm. He had the mind to Apparate back to his mansion and then... Everything was a blur after that.

 

He examined his sides, his torso was covered with loose bandages. He reached into his pants for his wand—His pockets were empty! He patted his body and the bed, expecting the wand to show up somehow. Before he could get out of the bed and upturn every furniture in the room, the door opened and Ginger walked in.

 

He must have looked like a mad man. In the past, it was one of the reasons Ginger shows that dead fish look. According to the Prophet, this was one of the reasons for his health exile. Then again, who listened to the Prophet? The papers listened to a Malfoy, not the other way around.

 

His thoughts stuttered to a halt when Ginger dangled his wand in front of his nose. He lunged for it and missed. The smirk on Ginger's mouth annoyed him.

 

“Give me back my wand, p—Ronald,” he said.

 

“I don't think so,” Ginger replied as his wand dissolved into smoke and disappeared.

 

“How could you—Give it back,” he said.

 

Ginger snorted and in half a second he had Draco bound tight. Ropes of some course material wound around his wrists and ankles.

 

“You heathen—You cannot do this to me!” he spluttered. Ginger took no heed of him as he leaned over and opened his bandages. The gashes looked far more sinister in the low light. The soft drops of rain accompanied their breaths. Its been years since they both encountered such injuries.

 

Ginger dripped liquid on the wound. He could have poked Draco with a fireside poker and it would not have made a difference. The potion burned and Draco almost bit his tongue trying to bite off a curse and any sign of hurt from his face.

 

“Could you give some warning,” he said.

 

“You'll need more of this,” Ginger said before pouring the burning liquid, drop by excruciating drop on his slowly healing wound. The liquid would turn to steam as it worked its healing magic on his skin.

 

Ginger finished half the tiny phial in his hand and looked gleeful at the sweat on Draco's face. Even his eyes were tearing up in pain. Ginger rolled him to his side. He only complied because its easier to hide his face in a pillow. There was no need to give Ginger the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

 

The dripping continued longer for the wound in his back, most likely because Ginger tore the wound bigger when he stepped on him last night. Maybe Draco could use that against him later?

 

The pain diminished and he could breathe properly again. He was slowly starting to feel better, far better than when he woke up. He turned over and sat up. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he glanced at Ginger standing in the corner of the room. How did he get away so fast? Draco moved to speak but he held a hand to silence him.

 

“You're healed,” he said and then pointed to a pile of dark cloth next to the candle on what he figured was a writing desk. Yes. Under the table was a stool, or what passed off as one. All three legs were of different wood and design.

 

“I want you to Apparate out of here. Now,” Ginger said as he crossed his arms, “I'll mail your wand to your mansion after you leave.”

 

“It's still raining,” he said. Ginger gave him a nod.

 

Draco didn't know what to answer to that. He understood he overstayed his welcome. He had been for years. If the circumstances were different...

 

“How did I get past your wards?" He asked. Ginger speared him a look before sighing.

 

“The thunderstorm overcharged them,” he mumbled and went for the door, “I expect you out of here within the hour.”

 

Ginger shut the door with a loud snap. So much for small mercies.

 

* * *

 

Ron was drinking tea by the fire when _he_ came down. The man coughed once to get Ron's attention. Ron decided not to give him any. A moment passed before he heard a sigh.

 

“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Weasley,” he said.

 

So he was _Mr. Weasley_ now? The bastard didn't change at all. Ron whipped his head with a scathing remark at the tip of his tongue but the man already has one foot out into the storm. Ron snorted against the slight bang of the door as it closed. He forcefully went back to his tea and his thoughts happily circulated around the poor garden gnomes drenched out in the rain. Suddenly, the door swung open with ferocious force.

 

“You undo this curse right now, Ronald!” the man yelled.

 

There were splashes of tea on the side of Ron's clothes, the rest pooled around the cup where it fell on the rug. Ron has his wand pointed at the man, a stupefy halted right at the last moment. He was breathing hard.

 

The man eyed his wand warily and his gaze flickered to his face. A pulsing rage was building around them. The man's jaw clenched as he held his hands out palms up. The fire gave a soft hiss before it died. Ron had not realized he was already in a dueling stance. Bugger. He swallowed and slowly lowered his arms, like the good duelist he was. Draco never was a good duelist.

 

The man leapt through the settee and lunged for Ron's wand. There was a scuffle and someone's elbow hit someone's thigh. After that, it devolved to a muggle fight.

 

Ron buried his fist in the bastard's cheek once. Twice. Then he toppled with a bruise to his side. Draco yanked at his hair and briskly slammed his face on the floor. Nothing broke but the world spun for a good while. He tried to crawl out from under Draco but then he was tilted sideways and there was a punch to his jaw. His ears rang and he managed to cut a lip. Draco snarled at his face. He growled back. Then...

 

_Then they were back at Hogwarts, sprawled out on the hall to the Owlery, with bird droppings on their robes. They fought then too. Their eyes were crazed with the thrill of the fight and their magic was singing in their veins. Draco's hair was a haystack and his left eye was bruising red and yellow. They managed to blood each other for some reason and when Ron licked his lip, Draco had surged up and their lips locked—_

 

Ron stilled and then flailed. He swatted at the man and reached for the floo powder. Fire blazed unnatural against the wet breeze and he threw the powder. The fire didn't turn.

 

Ron spied his wand between the fire and a cushion. He grabbed it and quickly got on his feet. He was running out of the cottage and into the woods. The rain couldn't soak his clothes fast enough and he hid behind a tree before Apparating. There was no tugging in his navel or any tight pulling of empty space.

 

The man barreled into him with a shout and in Ron's panic, he lost the wand. He ran. There was mud on his clothes and he didn't know if the trees splitting around him was because of his magic or the wand he knew was pointed at his back. He twisted to the right and cursed. This path led to the creek. He could only hope his makeshift bridge still stands.

 

There was no bridge. The whole plank, with its crude foundations at least four-feet under, was swept and eaten by a growing river. A _river_ , for Merlin's sake! It was nothing but a brook and a low creek a couple of days ago!

 

Mud exploded somewhere on his side and he bolted. He wasn't three steps away when something flashed behind him and threw him face first into the ground. Something roared right in his ears and made his entire body quake with fear. Then he felt the very dirt shake under him, tense under the raw energy it was transferring. To him. Ron moaned. Every bit of him strained with the magic and power of the Earth and the Sky. He couldn't even lift his palm up. He was stuck, a mode of transport from ground to air. It seemed to take hours before the Earth was satisfied. In these minutes, he had tried Apparating but the power kept him chained to the ground.

 

Slowly, the pressure pushing him down dissipated. He wobbly stood up and limped to a tree. He looked behind him. Draco was clinging to a log, his eyes trailed from Ron to the burnt crater on the ground between them. A long flat wooden stick poked out and Ron groaned. It was the Runic gift he offered to the guardian spirit of his land. It wasn't cracked or burned (which was a relief) but it served as a warning of sorts.

 

_Do not fight here._

 

By the look on Draco's face, he knew. He lowered Ron's wand. He spoke in a gravely voice, hoarse and raw from the magic crackling around them.

 

“You have a moat,” he said.

 

Ron could feel the blood leaving his face.

 

“We can't leave,” he whispered.

 

* * *

 

“A moat! A real, buggering moat!”

 

“Shut up already!”

 

They had come to a temporary truce. Draco apologized to Ron and returned his wand. Ron didn't return the bastard's wand but he did set out various poultices and potions to heal both of their wounds. Residual elemental magic pulsed within and around them. Soon enough, they were healed and Ron slowly tore off the rest of his outer clothes while he made for the bathroom. He stopped with a hand on the knob to glare at the blond. The man raised a brow at him.

 

“I'm going to bathe,” Ron said. Something moved by the man's jaw before his lips pulled back for a toothy smile.

 

“By all means, please do,” the man said. Ron made sure to slam the door to his face.

 

Ron's bathroom had the barest necessities: a wooden tub leaned on one side of the wall, a shower left exactly where it is in real space with the toilet and a sink tucked in one corner. He had magically added a tap with a limp pipe leading the water to the tub. He turned the tub right side up and placed in the middle of the room. The water ran cold then hot. He slipped out of his trousers and underwear into the pleasant warmth of the tub. He sighed. The moat acted as a natural defense against any sort of magic back in the olden days. The downside was that no magical being could leave from inside a moat. Ron had thought of filling in the creek when he realized it ran a complete circle around his then temporary home. However, the guardian deity of the land protested so much Ron lost the will to do it. In the end, they compromised on the makeshift bridge he set up.

 

He let out a frustrated sigh. The guardian liked Draco. If they didn't, Draco would've drowned in the river last night. Not only did the guardian like him, they even interfered with their wizard's duel. Granted it was a wizard's duel by a hair's breadth of its definition since it was more of a brawl than anything, the guardian liked them and wanted to keep them both safe. Ron was all for that. Being liked by a deity was pretty fantastic but if he had to spend another night with the bastard outside—

 

There was a flash of light against the window shutters and a rumble of thunder followed seconds after. Ron sucked in air. He nearly jumped from the bath when he heard a knock on the door.

 

“It's freezing out here. Hurry up!” the man's muffled voice carried through the door.

 

“Fucking freeze for all I care!” Ron yelled back. He found it hard to control the residual magic from their near death experience hours ago. He tried to block out all other thoughts as he wrapped a hand around his cock. He slid his hand over and under, over and under in a practiced way. He put his thoughts to daydreams as he dipped his fingers behind his bollocks, teasing his flesh.

 

He was always somewhere else; an unknown bed, someone's garden, an office. Sometimes with a woman. Sometimes with a man. Muscled, lean, thin or pudgy. Colored or not or different ones in between. Bloody hell, sometimes he wasn't even human! The bath turned lukewarm by now and soap suds floated to the top. He closed his eyes again.

 

He was in a windy beach somewhere. The rumbling was nothing but the crashing of waves against the coast. He was under water, enjoying the lukewarm temperature as he stroked his cock. His other hand reached over his balls and he tried to slip a pinky inside him. It was as if thunder lived under his skin, crackling and constantly shifting, needing to be released. He was panting now, trying to keep a steady rhythm with his cock. It wasn't enough and he knew that. He inserted another finger inside him and wriggled. There. He felt fuller somehow. He hastened stroking himself. He moved another finger in and—

 

Shite. Bugger. He had to stop and _breathe_.

 

His erection softened a little. It's been a while since he put anything bigger than two fingers up his bum. Better now than never, he thought.

 

Beach. Lukewarm water.

 

Maybe he needed another participant?

 

A random bloke this time. Black haired and tanned. Not a Brit or anyone close and up north. Ron had the imaginary guy sucking his dick fast then slow to drive him insane. The fingers, those were the guy's too. Loosening him up, gliding and guessing where... where...!

 

Ron could feel the residual magic curl around his frantic heart. He pushed against himself, inside, that special place that—that! And he pulled on his cock and—and—!

 

The howling in his ears died down moments later. His mouth was open and he kept pulling in gasping breaths. He looked at his cock still weeping streaks of seed. The rest floated merrily with the soap suds. He huffed and stared at the ceiling. He pulled his fingers from his bum and they rested on his inner thigh. The water was getting cold and his cum looked strange as it swam in the tub. He wrinkled his nose and stepped out of the tub. He vanished the water. He stood under a cold shower hoping to remove other tell tale signs of an orgasm.

 

He wasn't quite prepared when the door opened with a click as he went out of the shower. He made out a lanky figure with light blond hair before he hurried back behind the shower curtains.

 

“Bloody buggering fuck!” he yelled out.

 

“Keep it down,” the bastard said.

 

“Couldn't fucking wait, could you?! Bloody fuck!” Ron said as he groped for a towel. Shite. His heart tried to beat itself out of his chest. “How the buggering hell did you get in?”

 

“A simple trick. I really was freezing,” the bastard answered. Ron heard him whisper a water conjuring spell. Buggering shite. Ron wrapped the towel around his waist with harsh tugs.

 

“Could you not act like you own the place?” Ron said. The bastard was already in the tub with a fresh batch of hot water. The man extended his neck and moaned. Ron tried to bite his cheek. His wand dangled between slender fingers on the side of the tub.

 

“Give me back my wand,” Ron said. The bastard arched a brow at him. Then he let the wand slip into the tub.

 

“Oops. Someone didn't say the magic word,” the bastard said. Ron's eyes narrowed and he could feel the back of his neck burning. He got it, really. It was all the raw magic doing this. The man's eyes shone with thin rings of gold and Ron could see where the light crackled and shone on his skin.

 

However, Ron had spent and he was bone-deep tired. He whipped his hand casually and the candles put themselves out. Draco squeaked while Ron dove for the tub. He grabbed the man's ankle before reaching his wand. He hummed in delight and moved to straighten up.

 

Draco's grip on his arm nearly made him tumble into the bath. A current of magic flowed through him before he put a stop to it.

 

“We can ground ourselves. Might be for the best,” Draco whispered, “Help each other out?”

 

Ron shook his hand off.

 

“You miss your wife,” Ron whispered back. Then he laughed and said, “She's done nothing but good to you, by you, and this is how you repay her?”

 

“We knew what we were getting into. I told you before, she agreed. Its stated in the contract,” Draco said.

 

“That you can take on a favorite, I know,” Ron said. He straightened out and headed for the door. He flicked his hand and the candles lit themselves again.

 

“You're still my favorite,” Draco said. Ron turned back to look at his ashen face.

 

“I don't want to be your favorite,” Ron said. Draco always said the same things and Ron had always replied in the same way.

 

“You won't give me what I want anyway,” he grumbled as he left. He was amazed when he didn't slam the door.

 

* * *

 

Ron twisted in bed. He couldn't sleep. There was enough of the magic left in him to keep him from slumber. He let out a huff as he turned to his side, a pillow wedged in his arms. He kept reliving the day over and over.

 

After the bath, Ron went ahead and prepared dinner. It was a simple stew with days old bread. He had half the mind to dine with the bastard but the moment he heard the door open upstairs, he lost his courage. He scooped up his portion and clambered up the stairs. Draco was dressed when he caught him in his room.

 

“You're sleeping on the couch this time,” Ron said. Draco stared at him and then nodded. He marched downstairs without complaint. Ron sighed in relief. The man's eyes were their usual grey and his skin stopped glowing. It might explain how he followed Ron easily this time.

 

He turned to face the ceiling. Draco spent just one night between these sheets and everything stunk of lavenders already. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

 

His bedroom door creaked open. Ron tensed before relaxing. Soft foot falls went to the side of his bed. The mattress dipped around him from the sides surrounding his face. He felt a finger trail down his cheek. Careful fingers brushed his hair. He opened his eyes. A pair of gold-ringed, grey eyes pierced right through his soul. He can only guess at the responding gold in his.

 

“Ronald, pet...” Draco said. Ron blinked slowly.

 

“Pet,” Draco tried again. “I'm not married. I couldn't sign the contract.”

 

The rhythm of Ron's heart stuttered. Draco laid his hand on Ron's cheek.

 

“Anything you want, pet. Anything,” Draco said. He followed his hand with his lips, kissing Ron's temple, eyes, cheeks... Ron grabbed Draco's wrist.

 

“Anything?” he asked.

 

“Anything I can give you,” Draco said. Ron sank further into the mattress. It was the year old conversation all over again.

 

It has been two years since Ron exiled himself. It has been three months before that when his magic started to act up. Then a month or so before the latter...

 

Well. That was when they broke up, him and Draco. They did the _drifting away_ thing for a while but they manage to meet up anyway. They tried the _denial_ thing too. It would have worked if Ron could stomach seeing him with another witch or wizard. Ron thought Draco might have felt the same but he never said anything.

 

They started sometime 4th year. They were in the Owlery and they shared blood with each other without meaning to. Their magic sang and throbbed when they're together. Ron thought his bursts of agitation was caused by how infuriating the blond was.

 

Magical compatibility was extremely rare. They ended each year promising to stop. They started the next breaking that promise. When the war... By the time the war ended, Ron was sure they were over. They even got to exchange confessions of undying love or something along those lines.

 

Ron was pretty happy then. Not that he wasn't happy now but he felt lighter without a 'scandalous' secret relationship spell-o-taped to his back and he didn't have to look every which way for journalists and peculiar bugs.

 

Draco sprung the contract on him one day. He had started on his usual drivel about aristocracy and the pure-blood lineage and heirs. He lectured at length about mistresses and favorites and Ron had stopped listening at some point. They exchanged heated words and fists. For some reason, they could never find their wands on them when they dueled. Ron tried grabbing Draco's from his holster only to come up empty handed.

 

Ron came back the following week and met multiple candidates of Draco's Courtship Party. There were only three of them and that was because Draco had the whole of seven months to choose and court his preferred candidates. Seven months! Ron was supposed to be an Auror apprentice! He should have known! He had scared the ladies off when a huge clay urn exploded behind them by accident.

 

From then on, every conversation they had ended up with this one. They fought, cooled off for a couple of weeks then go back to fighting again.

 

It wasn't that Ron didn't understand. It just never struck him that he was dating Draco Malfoy, sole Heir of the Malfoy family and humongous git. He had responsibilities and duties and who knew what else. Ron's own mother wanted grandchildren from him too and he couldn't even admit how much he...

 

No matter. The ending went a little bit something like this: Draco offered him a spot as his favorite which he turned down by proposing marriage. Of course Draco couldn't say yes to that. Of fucking course.

 

Ron was despondent for months before Harry took pity on him and let him move into his apartment. It was then that he was forced to consult a healer. The healer pronounced him unstable for his job and pending graduation from his apprenticeship after sufficient therapy and testing. He had to work for George at the shop so he could buy the land he lives in now. He was like a fish out of water at first. He was discouraged by Healer Violetblossom to use his magic in case it decided to blow his body to bits. Those first few months were painful. He half wished his magic to blow him up anyway if only he could use it.

 

He went through therapy, first weekly then monthly. Healer Violetblossom had to re-train him doing the same charm over and over for hours. By the end of every session, Ron was exhausted and sometimes he had to run away fast because some pillow or chair caught fire. He managed to blast a huge gargoyle while chanting a summoning spell. The healer shook her head in dismay every time and would tick something off of her checklist. Ron was sure it was a checklist.

 

The healer said his magic was used to reacting to stimuli. He was accustomed to fighting and draining his magic during the war and the Auror Apprenticeship. It was up to a simple matter of redirecting and controlling his magic to not release in huge bursts. Ron didn't see things that way. He felt his magic as a spring that bubbled up inside him and he couldn't cover it up. It overflows when he just wants a goblet full. This _spring_ reacts to his emotions, bubbling up with rage and would flow like a flood. He felt more powerful, and more volatile.

 

He learned to control it again. Instead of the trickle of magic flowing through him, a raging flood was in its place. He learned how to contain it with a tap, localize the flow of energy and give it a focus. Even through thoughts of... Even through Draco's farce of an engagement and eventual marriage. He had to stop subscribing to all the wizarding papers. He had enough trouble already with just the thought of—

 

With the thought of someone he loves— _loved_ —dearly with someone else, marrying someone else, living the rest of his life with and rearing their children with and—

 

It wasn't fair, not to him. Even with his magic, he couldn't stop the world from moving, stop time from chugging on like a slow train. He couldn't change Draco's mind then, he wouldn't change his mind now. He looked into gold-ringed eyes and he could see their past in it. Both the good and the bad. From their many firsts till their very last. Ron could see the future too, where Draco would continue being a Malfoy and _he_ wasn't there. It broke his heart. His choices were to leave or be delegated to the shadows.

 

He chose to leave then. It was hard but he survived. He was still surviving. He could have this, whatever this was, this _thing_ between the first drop of rain and the last while the world slept and hid from the storm...

 

He bit his lip.

 

* * *

 

It was a split second of indecision. It was enough. There was a ray of light on Ron's face. He had to squint and burrow his face under the covers. Or Draco's chest and armpit. It was pleasantly dark.

 

He seemed to have a thousand thoughts and none. Harsh whispers urged him to move while a soft caressing thumb ran circles on his shoulder and made him want to stay.

 

It was too easy to go back to this. Ron's arm found its way to Draco's hip while Draco's hand was on his shoulder. Slowly, the blond lifted their hands on his chest, on his heart, where their fingers naturally curled together. Sometime during the night, Ron had clung to the blond's leg. Ron could feel the uneven puffs of air on the top of his head.

 

He didn't want to open his eyes. He could hear some hapless bird sing a tune outside. The storm has passed.

 

* * *

 

It was too easy. The light banter Draco started while they dressed carried them through the morning. Ron conveniently forgot Draco's teaspoon of milk in his tea. Draco took care to vocally announce his displeasure. They could not stop the inevitable.

 

Draco stood beside him as they surveyed the dried up creek. Ron hesitated before waving his wand. Various wooden blocks sprouted from its tip and arranged themselves to form a bridge. He let out a breath and he heard Draco do the same. He didn't know what to say or do. Should it be 'goodbye' or 'See you later?' He shifted from one foot to the other. He felt a hand on his cheek and he turned to Draco. His eyes were glazed, wet silver. Ron moved forward and kissed him.

 

This was easy too. Ron tilted to the side and Draco to the other. When he reached out with his tongue, Draco met him halfway. The hand on his cheek moved to his nape and the other to his waist. His hands were on Draco's hips, then his waist, then flat in his chest. When he pulled away, they pulled away together. Draco moved his mouth to speak but Ron beat him.

 

“Don't say you're sorry. Don't,” Ron said. He closed his eyes. He heard Draco give a wry laugh.

 

“You're too good for me Ron,” Draco said. They pulled away from each other after a long moment. Ron opened his eyes and resolutely stared at the bridge. He huffed and summoned Draco's wand. He snatched it from the air and held it out for the blond. Draco looked at it warily before taking it. He took one step forward, and then another and another till he reached the end. Ron saw him wink out of existence with a _pop._

 

* * *

 

He was drinking tea. Chamomile and never lavender. The chicken coop was squashed by a fallen tree. The chickens were all scattered about, minding their own business. Ron wondered why they haven't broken out for freedom yet but they could be bidding their time. The garden was a lost cause and the gnomes had dug impressive caverns behind the cottage to keep dry from the rain. Ron had to help them excavate family out from some of the closed off holes. The plants would grow again. His muggle neighbor came by with something they called a care package and it had food that would last him a couple of weeks. He gave them some of the preserves he made from a while back. He flooed Harry about the 'incident,' omitting some of the more personal events. If anyone could get to the bottom of that mystery, it would be Harry. After tea, he would look into restructuring the wards and maybe feeding the gnomes in his garden after. They were still digging up holes either in search for food or other gnomes and they kept coming up with more mud.

 

An eagle swooped in to perch at the back of his chair. It carried a rich, thick envelope lined with silver and sealed by the Malfoy crest. The letter was dropped on Ron's lap. He gulped and opened it with trembling hands...

**Author's Note:**

> BBCchu has mostly been my muse for this. They're quite famous in the Dron business. Please give them some love.
> 
> I listened to "Its all coming back to me now" by Celine Dion a hundred times to write this fic. Then while editing, I realized "Come on get higher" by Matt Nathanson existed.


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